


Barrel

by daftfear



Series: The Whole Series [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Exhibitionism, Explicit Language, M/M, Oneshot, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-16 01:36:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2251023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daftfear/pseuds/daftfear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Sequel to Lock and Stock, and final part of The Whole Series!] Draco Malfoy discovers there are many different ways to win.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barrel

**Author's Note:**

> This is the final part of the Whole Series. First part is Lock. Second part is [Stock](%E2%80%9C), so read those first! Thanks for the kudos and comments! I really appreciate them. I hope you guys enjoy this! And please let me know if you did. :D <3

Barrel

Sweat drips down my forehead, my breath coming in short, shallow pants. Muscles taut, burning, I urge forward, the hard shaft between my thighs. Adrenaline pumps through me, bubbling in my veins, and I barrel onward, desperate, reaching.

But the Snitch disappears just beyond my grasp, and I close my hands around wisps of cloud. A rush of wind blows my broom off-course, and there he is, hovering metres away in the air.

Potter, robed in brown with purple accents and a silver ‘A’ across his chest, scans the skies for that tell-tale glint of gold. As if I hadn’t already done that. Finding nothing, he spares only a glance for me, his eyes mostly obscured by his round glasses, and drops back down closer to the pitch.

We haven’t spoken in three weeks. Not since that day in the sparring room.

Cursing to myself, I ease my broom down to the other side of the pitch and study the game unfolding beneath me. As I reach play level, Weasley dives to the side and knocks the Quaffle back to Spinnet. I can see Macavoy, in the regal purple and silver robes of the DMLE, heave a dramatic sigh watching her play fail, but it serves her right. I bloody told her to stick to Weasley’s right. I hate to admit it, but he’s a near flawless Keeper on a regular day. But this is not a regular day.

A week ago, Weasley tore three ligaments in his right arm during Stealth and Tracking, aggravating an old wound from back in Third Year. The Mediwizards mended him straight away, but I know from experience that those kinds of injuries require more than potions and spells to heal properly. And Weasley isn’t one for bed rest.

But Macavoy didn’t like the idea of playing the Auror team’s weaknesses against them. No one else seemed to have trouble with my help, mind. Even Thomas, who I expected to have some deeper loyalty to his former-Gryffindor mates, listened to my suggestions with thinly veiled excitement. The DMLE Quidditch team expected to be at a disadvantage when they heard the Auror department was offering me up as the Seeker to their unfinished team.

Auror department had two of us, and no one is going to pass on having Potter on their team.

But I am very observant, and the whole notion of “healthy interdepartmental competitiveness” is one of the best jokes I’ve heard since before the war.

“Spinnet passes the Quaffle off to Chambers. Chambers dodges a Bludger sent his way by Samuels, and goes for the goal—no! McLaggen’s blocked it! The game is still seventy–fifty for the DMLE!” 

At least McLaggen’s arrogance isn’t totally unfounded.

There he is again, hovering so much closer than is comfortable. Potter watches me as I watch the game, I can feel it on my back, but I refuse to look over. My eyes search the pitch, the stands, the skies—anywhere—for the Snitch, but it’s nowhere to be found. Not yet. 

The day is bright and partly cloudy, and when I walked out onto the pitch this morning, it was hot. Mid-August is not the optimal time for the annual Ministry Quidditch Cup, but now I’m up here, I barely feel the heat. Instead, my stomach churns, and the cold wind whipping my face helps stifle the nausea.

And then I see it. The tiniest sparkle of gold up by the family boxes. It’s lingering close to a Ministry banner, blending in with the shining silver decals. But Potter isn’t moving. 

Heart racing, I take a risk. I fall into a feint, diving downward, directly toward the ground. Air rushes by, snapping through my purple robes and slicking my hair back the way I wore it years ago, an eternity ago.

I reach out as the ground comes upon me, and the crowd gasps and cheers and I know Potter is following me. His broomstick jets forward, trying to meet me. The heat, the weight of a presence near me at this velocity is powerful. Body surging with excitement, I count down four, three, two—and pull the tip of my broom up veer sharply to the right, shooting directly for the family boxes.

The crowd rages, screaming incoherently, but I don’t care about what they’re saying. The distance between my hand and the Snitch closes steadily, quickly, but not quickly enough. Potter pulled out of the feint just barely in time, and he’s gaining on me. His broom is faster than mine, slightly newer.

He’s at my shoulder, not quite in line with me, but not far enough behind either. I tighten my grip on my broomstick, begging for more speed, dragging it on faster, faster.

Potter barrels into me, his shoulder slamming into mine to knock me off path, but the whole of me is abuzz with the tension of a coiled spring. I readjust, arm outstretched next to his. The distance closing, closing, Potter leans forward as far as he can go on the broom, but he’s miscalculated.

This game is all I’ve got.

I kick off my broom, as though about to jump, and my fingers close around the cold, golden ball. The silver wings flutter wildly against my fist, but I can barely feel them compared to the pounding of my heart. I land back on my broom, breathless and spinning, and hold my hand aloft.

“Unbelievable! Malfoy narrowly beats out Potter to the Snitch. Malfoy has caught the Snitch! The Department of Magical Law Enforcement win the Ministry Cup for the first time in seven years!”

I’m flying around and around the pitch, doing laps as the team rushes in to join me, arms all raised in celebration. And then the ground comes up beneath me, I’m standing at the heart of a crowd of cheers and Kingsley Shacklebolt is walking out on to the pitch with the Ministry Cup in hand.

I can barely breathe when he hands it to me, to the team, and declares us victors. Laughing manically, I raise the golden cup above my head, Snitch still in the other hand, and take in the crowd. A team member, Roger Davies, takes the cup from me to pass around. 

Then sound escapes the screaming crowd that sounds half-way between shock and excitement. Heart still pounding, I turn to see Potter on the ground, stalking toward me through his teammates, his expression intense.

He looks angry, livid, and his gaze never wavers from me as he approaches. Pinned there by the force of his eyes, I steel myself for a fight. My fingers twitch for my wand, but I won’t be the one to pull first. 

Within a moment he’s in front of me, his arm up as though to strike me. His hand comes down and clasps at my neck, pulling me toward him and into a crushing kiss.

We collide like stars, an explosion of light filling me the moment his lips touch mine. My stomach twists and drops, and the weight in my chest lifts. I can breathe again but can only breathe him. His fingers slide up into my hair, dragging me closer still. And all my defenses are down, all my muscles ease, and I melt into the kiss.

My hands bury themselves in his messy hair, soaking every inch of him in as though I’d been living without air for three weeks and hadn’t noticed.

When he pulls away, his eyes seek mine out. His cheeks are pink, his lips red, but I can find only one emotion in his eyes.

Pride.

“You beat me,” he says, and I’ve never heard him sound happier.

I realize that the entire crowd fell silent, shocked into muteness, and Potter’s hands are still on me.

“Bit slow, aren’t you, Scarhead?” I say, but the words are breathless. I don’t know what else to say.

He laughs and says, “yeah. And I’m a bit thick, too.” 

“Harry?” Weasley’s voice, as always, interrupts everything. 

Potter turns to his friend, and his hand slides away from the nape of my neck. The disappointment in me is quickly squashed when his fingers lace with mine.

“Sorry, Ron,” Potter says with a smile. “Can’t be helped. I’ll explain later.”

I only got a brief glimpse of the almost resigned look on Weasley’s face before the familiar pull of Apparition whisks me off. Landing with a shuddering jerk, I feel only a twirling brightness in my chest.

The room is bright, an entire wall of windows letting in the afternoon sun. A plush green carpet sprawls out beneath my feet, and to the right there is a large bed adorned in pale blues and greys. The walls are adorned with photos of faces I knew well but who did not know me. 

Potter brought me to his bedroom.

His robes are on the ground, only trousers and an undershirt remain as he sidles up to me and plays with the ties on my robes. 

“I’ve been a git and a prat and everything else you can think of,” he says, and the way his eyes dart back and forth between mine tells me he’s nervous. “I’ve been trying to apologize for three weeks but didn’t know how. Nothing seemed big enough. And I didn’t realize just how badly I wanted you, how badly I needed you, until you left.”

My breath catches, and I can barely breathe again, waiting for the moment of waking. Potter’s green eyes bore into me, his hands on my neck, gripping me as though he’s afraid I’ll vanish. 

“I want the whole of you, Draco Malfoy,” he says, and before he can go on, I pull him into me.

The kiss is hot, demanding, and filled with desperate freedom. His hands claw at my robes, ripping them from my body. My tongue presses to the seam of his lips, slipping inside to taste him again like a starving man takes food. I can feel the moan in him when my hands tug at his undershirt. He grabs fistfuls of my hair and pushes his half-naked chest against mine. Skin to searing skin, we press together until our hips collide. He’s hard beneath his trousers, the straining erection knocking roughly against mine.  
I drag my hands down his back and hook into his trousers and pants, tearing them from his waist until he’s standing in the pools of each leg. His fingers make deft work of my own trousers while my hand closes around the shaft of his leaking cock. 

Potter groans into my mouth, his tongue sliding against mine. The coils of desire unraveling in me burn under the skin. I bite down on his lower lip and suck hard. His hands grasp my arse and pull me into him, our bare erections sliding together. I wrap my fingers around both of them together, pumping unevenly. Sparks of pleasure radiate from where I’m touching him, and he bucks into my hand. I push him against the wall-length windows, and he gasps when his back touches the cool glass. 

Nails raking at my back, Potter almost whimpers, “Draco,” and I think I might explode.

Panting and nearly blind from wanting, I pull away from the kiss. His pupils are massive, gaping, blotting out the green. I want to finish right then, to come and wank him with the wetness of it, but I have a better idea.

I let go of us both and spin him around, pressing his chest to the window instead, and knock his legs apart with my knee. Sliding up against him, my cock is nestled between his cheeks, and Potter slams his hands against the window, moaning freely now.

“You have the whole of me,” I rasp into his ear. “Do I get the whole of you?”

With a heady moan and a plea, Potter says, “yes, fuck, Draco. You have the whole of me, so fucking take me.”

I latch on to his neck, sucking at the skin, and reach one hand out to wandlessly summon lube. Hysterically grateful when a small bottle flies into my palm, I pop the cap and squeeze it out on to my fingers.

His skin tastes of salt and fire and something entirely new, as though I’m tasting him this time. Not soap or cream, but him. 

I press one finger to him, sliding it in slowly, but he thrusts back against me. 

“More, Draco,” he says, “now.”

So I give him two, then three fingers, pushing in and pulling out in painfully languorous movements. Potter bucks back again and again as I alternate sucking and kissing up his neck. My mouth at his jawline, I can only breathe the musky scent of him and how badly he wants me. 

Unable to take it any longer, I remove my fingers and coat my cock with lube. The world tilts, frenzied, as I push the head of my cock into his arse, the tight heat of it pulling me in.

“Fuck, yes,” Potter says and arches his back with a push until I’m completely sheathed in him. A deep moan tears itself from my chest, and I thrust into him, out, in, barely able to control myself.

He meets me, thrust for thrust, grinding against my erection as though he can’t get enough. And maybe he can’t. Merlin knows I can’t.

Fingers digging roughly into his hips, pulling him on to me, I place one palm on his chest and drag it down, down, pressing his body to me bit by bit to vanish the air between us. Head spinning, filled with Potter and nothing else, I exhale against his ear, unable to focus on anything but fucking him and feeling him urge me for more.

My hand wraps around his cock, harder than even before, and I pump it, fast and hard, off time with my thrusts. I’m on fire, body slick from the sweat between us, and all I can hear is the moaning scream coming from Potter’s throat.

“Draco, yes, harder, Draco!” And I do, I fuck him harder and harder, until I can’t see at all, and I screw my eyes shut to fight off the building climax. Can’t. Not yet. Not until—

With a cry, Potter comes hard, spraying the window with jets of thick, white liquid, and I can’t hold on anymore if I’d tried. A flash of white and gold behind my eyes, and I’m coming inside him, filling him, and jerking violently from the force of it.

I collapse against him, barely able to keep myself standing, and Potter’s cheek is pressed hard to the glass, his breath condensing softly against it. I pull out of him, despite myself, and he tumbles back into my arms.

We stagger backward and land in a heap on the bed, his body atop me, head leaning against my shoulder. Neither of us says a word for a while, the sound of our heaving breaths the only thing to fill the silence. Then Potter pushes himself up and turns, his body still half on me, to look me in the face. His eyes dance with exhausted pleasure. 

“Now what?” I ask, still breathless. He leans down and kisses me again, but when our lips meet, it’s slow, gentle, and full of depth.

“I meant what I said.” Potter smiles. “You have the whole of me, too. In public and in private.”

I swallow, barely trusting myself to speak. “Weasley and the others?” 

Potter’s smile widens to a grin. “He’ll just have to understand.”

I pull him into another kiss, and with his lips on mine, our naked bodies entwined. It’ll always be him, and it’ll always be me.

We are each other’s whole.


End file.
